


We Few, We Happy Few

by crazyinjune



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Era, Gen, I wanted it to be not sad, hopefully it is not sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/pseuds/crazyinjune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of June 4th, nine men are scattered around Paris. Together, they await the dawn in their own ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Few, We Happy Few

**Author's Note:**

  * For [satb31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/gifts).



> In honor of Barricade Day.

“I have been thinking.”

 

“Of?”

 

“We may die tomorrow.” Prouvaire is sitting on Bahorel’s floor, cross legged and pensieve, having dragged the outlandishly patterned blanket off of Bahorel’s bed and around his shoulders.

 

Bahorel looks ups from the tiny stove and grins. “Look at the clock, my friend. We have entered the early hours of June 5th, the funeral dawns, and we may die _today._ ”

 

Prouvaire frowns and pulls the blanket tighter. Some absent part of him notices that it itches, but he does not let go. “Does it not concern you?”

 

Bahorel barks out a laugh. “Dying? Not at all. Jehan, the number of riots I have lived through may rival the number of years you have been born.” He is tossing eggs from hand to hand with an easy sort of grace, and Prouvaire wonders at how small they are compared to the breadth of his palms.

 

“You are too overconfident,” he says as Bahorel begins cracking his eggs into a pan. “It’s almost disrespectful.”

 

“To whom?” Bahorel crouches down to situate himself at eye-level with the eggs, scrutinizing them as if that will make them cook faster.

 

“To God. _The_ gods. Fate, the universe. You disrespect them all.”

 

“On the contrary.” Bahorel unceremoniously dumps the eggs onto a plate and saunters over to sit cross legged on the floor across from Prouvaire. Prouvaire offers a corner of the blanket and Bahorel swoops it off and drapes it over them both. “I think I give them the utmost respect.”

 

Prouvaire furrows his brows and Bahorel laughs again. “Jehan. Je _han_ , perhaps all out death dates have been set in stone from the beginning. Tempting fate at a riot however many times will not change that. Perhaps we will die today. Perhaps I could have died last week by way of that vile concoction I drank with Grantaire. Perhaps you could have died last night when you fell asleep with that feathered thing around your neck. Perhaps Joly will actually develop one of the horrible diseases he dreams about. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.  I refuse to think about perhaps.”

 

“And if death comes for you? Will you think, ‘perhaps I shall die now’ in that moment?”

 

Bahorel smiles broadly. “When death comes for me, I’ll go to it running”

 

Provaire sighs. “Would that I had your gall.” He burrows himself into the blanket, trying to make himself smaller. “I am afraid, Bahorel. I do not know what death feels like. I should not like to  stop _feeling._ ”

 

Bahorel reaches out a hand to gently tip Prouvaire’s chin towards him. “I don’t think you will ever stop feeling. Your ghost will haunt all the living by asking if they want to hear your latest poem on the beauty of clouds on a December morning.”

 

“They _are_ beautiful,” Prouvaire retorts with petulance.

 

“Do you know what I think?”

 

“About the clouds?”

 

“About you.”

 

“I have a feeling you are about to tell me.”

 

“Well,” Bahorel folds his large hands over one of Prouvaire’s small ones. “I think you are the most intrepid of us all. You’d never die trembling, but resolute.”

 

“But Bahorel,” Prouvaire’s eyes suddenly light up, and he clasps the hands around his own. “To die on the day of a _funeral_ , think of it!”

 

Bahorel roars with laughter and shakes his head, finally starting in on his eggs. “Never lose your poetry, Jean Prouvaire.”

 

***

 

Grantaire is talking in his sleep.

 

Bossuet leans against the doorframe while Joly checks the pulse on Grantaire’s wrist, which is dangling limply from the couch with his fingers wrapped loosely around the neck of a bottle.

 

“He’s clearly _alive_ , Joly, you can hear him mumbling,”

 

“Just in _case,_ ” Joly insists. Grantaire rolls over in apparent distress, and the bottle slips from his fingers. Joly catches it before it can hit the ground and shatter, placing it carefully on the the floor. “He is just sleeping off inebriation, it seems. Do you have my spare handkerchief?” Bossuet does, and Joly gently wipes Grantaire’s brow. Grantaire’s lips do not stop fluttering, forming word after intelligible word.

 

“Even asleep, you must have your rants, hmmm Grantaire?” Bossuet pushes back Grantaire’s wild hair for Joly, fondness in his voice despite himself. “What is he saying, Joly, can you hear—?”

 

“Icarus,” Grantaire says very clearly. Joly freezes, and the smile melts off Bossuet’s face. Grantaire is still asleep, but tosses around once more. “Enjolras...Icarus fell,” he murmurs, then lets out a snore.

 

“Perhaps we should go now,” Bossuet says quietly. “Musichetta may worry.”

 

Joly nods, and picks up his cane. “He’ll likely breakfast at the Corinthe in the morning, should he wake up in time.”

 

“Well then! So shall we. Perhaps we can conduct him towards cheerfulness with oysters, cheese and ham.”

 

“And wine,” Joly offers as Bossuet sweeps open the door.

 

“And wine.” They start down the rickety stairs, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Joly’s cane ends up hitting Bossuet in the shins more than once, but he only laughs. A cool breeze hits them on the street, and Joly sneezes.

 

“Ah! Oh, Bossuet look, a _cat._ ” Indeed, there is a small grey cat slinking over the cobblestones, and Joly gleefully bends down to coax it into his hands.  “Shall we take it to Musichetta?” He sneezes again.

 

Bossuet eyes the cat with a considerable degree of wariness. “Musichetta, certainly. She can have it, the last cat you brought home to stay with _you_ tore my beloved coat, and Jolllly, my dear, you cannot stop _sneezing_!”

 

“I—a _choo_!” Another sneeze. “Perhaps I shall have a cold tomorrow,” Joly resigns himself.

 

“You may blow away the National Guard with the very power of your sneezes during the riots.” Bossuet teases.

“Didn’t I, in 1830?” Joly tucks the squirming cat under his arm. “That guardsman was so startled that I sneezed at him that you had the chance to knock him over the head with your gun.”

 

“Poor chap,” Bossuet links his arm around Joly’s free one and they start down the street again. “But, Joly, I will never understand why you insist on picking up every cat you see when you know they make you sneeze so.”

 

“And _I_ will never understand why you keep borrowing Courfeyrac’s hair wax,” Joly retorts back. “Laigle, you are _bald._ ”

 

“Can I not have a bald head as shiny as Courfeyrac’s curls? At any rate, it will serve me well in the riots. You may sneeze at them, while I deflect them with the light shining off my head. I’m sure Combeferre can come up with some science to optimize the use of my head in battle.”

 

Joly has to stop in the middle of the darkened street and double over his cane to control his laughing.

 

***

“Calm _down_ , Enjolras.”

 

Puzzled, Enjolras looks up at Courfeyrac from his seat at the table. “I am calm,” he says.

 

“You are not,” says Combeferre mildly,taking one Enjolras’s fidgeting hands and gently squeezing it. “Your hands have been moving out of their own accord for at least five minutes. Perhaps drop the pen, you’re likely to end up covered in ink.”

 

Enjolras puts down his pen and leans back in his chair, frowning. “I cannot find at least half our maps. I was hoping to take a look at rendezvous points again.”

 

“Those maps you left in my rooms two days ago,” says Courfeyrac. “We can look at them tomorrow morning, I must go back for a change of clothes anyways.”

 

Combeferre laughs. “Changing your clothes for a riot?”

 

“A _funeral._ And a revolution, I must look my best for both.”

 

Enjolras is still frowning. “I should not have left those maps with you. You do not...live alone.”

 

Courfeyrac opens his mouth to say something, but Combeferre quickly intercedes, tightening his grip on Enjolras’s hand in warning. “Will Pontmercy be at the funeral, Courfeyrac?”

 

“ _Marius_ has not come home in a day and a half,” says Courfeyrac stiffly, but laughter settles into his features again as he keeps talking. “I believe he is trying to woo his Ursule-or-whoever, but he is more concerned with the sudden and alarming upheaval of his heart than the upheaval of Paris.”

 

Combeferre is laughing, but Enjolras seems lost in thought. Sighing, Courfeyrac goes over to the table from his perch on the bed and stands behind Enjolras, kneading the tension out of his shoulders. “You are too rigid,” he hums into Enjolras’s hair as Enjolras closes his eyes and relaxes into Courfeyrac’s hands ever so slightly.

 

Combeferre gives them both a small smile and leaves the table to pick up a lantern by his bed. Lighting it, he carefully draws the curtains away from the window and places the lamp on the sill. Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow in question, and Enjolras opens his eyes at the sudden noise.

 

“We must not be the only ones up so late tonight,” Combeferre explains. “It’s especially dark out, anyone who wanted to make their way here may need a guide.”

 

“We should take weapons inventory again,” Enjolras says, almost to himself. “Let me up, Courfeyrac, I need to—”

 

“You need to do _nothing_ of the sort,” declared Courfeyrac. “Enjolras, we are fine. We will be fine. Have we not been preparing since 1830?”

 

“A night of rest would do us all good, Enjolras,” Combeferre agrees. He is back at the table, one of Enjolras’s hands back in his as he brushes his thumb over Enjolras’s knuckles in reassurance.

 

They are interrupted with a knock on the door, and Courfeyrac opens it to find Feuilly standing with a sheaf of papers.

 

“I had hoped you would be awake,” says Feuilly with considerable relief as Courfeyrac ushers him into the room. “I saw the lantern in the window.”

 

Enjolras has gotten up out of his chair, eyes bright. “Even if we were asleep, I’d never refuse you Feuilly. What have you—”

 

“I thought you may want this,” Feuilly hands Enjolras the papers. “Some generals came into the stop today to buy some fans for their wives. They speak louder than they should about things they should not.” He breaks out into a smile. “...And they assume that I am perhaps not as literate as I am.”

 

All trace of fatigue is gone from Enjolras’s face, and he clasps Feuilly’s hands in earnest. “Feuilly, this is invaluable.” Combeferre and Courfeyrac begin poring over the papers, while Enjolras draws Feuilly aside near the fireplace. “I should like it if you would help lead us tomorrow,” he says quietly.

 

Feuilly flushes. “Enjolras, I—”

 

“You may the love the people the most out of all of us,” Enjolras insists, still gripping Feuilly’s hands. “You should lead them. Help save them.”

 

Feuilly looks as if he is about to protest, then stops himself and nods in acquiescence.

 

“Stay, Feuilly.” Combeferre calls out from the table. “It is too late to go home, and we are going back to Courfeyrac’s in the morning. Should you need anything from your room, we can stop by there as well.”

 

They end up dragging the blankets off of both Enjolras and Combeferre’s beds and spreading them out in front of the fireplace so all four of them can be comfortable. Enjolras falls asleep next to Feuilly, with Combeferre’s hand in his as Combeferre and Courfeyrac talk softly until they too fall asleep.

 

On June 5th, Enjolras wakes at the same time as the sun, and the first thing he hears is the sound of  Courfeyrac’s laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi at crazyinjune.tumblr.com xoxox


End file.
